


Can’t Help Falling in Love

by WendiMyDarling



Category: British Actor RPF, Henry Cavill - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendiMyDarling/pseuds/WendiMyDarling
Summary: The Senses Challenge: each chapter focuses on a different sense. You can do this any way you'd like; I've chosen to have each chapter add a new filter to the same scene.
Relationships: Henry Cavill & Reader
Comments: 1





	1. Sight

* * *

Warm sunlight, shining gently in tiny spotlights through the cracks in the leaves above us, flickered as a breeze blew through the branches. As I looked up at the scenery, I couldn’t help but compare it to twinkling starlight. Soft, golden, luminous starlight. The amber hue mixed perfectly with the translucent green of the leaves, illuminating the entire area in a beautiful, hazy glow. I wondered if we were actually in heaven. The old patchwork quilt we were stretched out on had long since lost its stiffness. Being on my stomach, a book in hand, I could see that some of the string had been pulled in places, making it lose its intricate threading pattern a bit.

He lay to my left on his back, holding his own book over his head in one hand to read it. His brunette locks, damp from our swim in the lake, were beginning to curl on the top of his head. I studied the lines of his face, memorizing every detail. The sharp bridge of his nose stuccoed with freckles; the way his scruff grew less thick where his cheeks meet his jaw. The two dignified wrinkles in his brow he always complained about that never went away, no matter how relaxed his face was. The soft pink color of his lips, and the tiny dark spot directly centered below the dip of his upper lip. Everything about his face was symmetrical, except for my favorite feature: his eyes.

A layman on the street would call them blue, but I knew better. When he was happy, his eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer day, and when he was angry they would darken, like the ocean when a storm was brewing. On sad days they changed completely, a gray hue cooling their tone. When he looked at me with love, they always softened, and became the color of cornflowers. With lust, they transformed into the part of fire that burns hottest. 

A ring of brown spots circled the pupil of his right eye, but his left eye is what captured me the most. It has the most gorgeous mutation I’ve ever seen, cinnamon and salt air blending together to form a dazzling nebula of pigment. It was as if someone had taken paint and splashed it over his iris; a perfect pie slice of sky cut into the mellow spice, and two pinpricks of chocolate graced his limbal ring on the right. Beautiful. Just beautiful.

My eyes trailed down the length of his neck, taking in the rich olive tone of his complexion. He always grew so tan in the summer. I travel further, taking in the statuesque figure of his naked torso. The man is stunning. Every line, every muscle has been carefully sculpted for a purpose, and each one tells the story of the hard work put into its creation. His broad chest is covered in a smattering of dark hair that journeys down to his hips, skipping his ribcage. A few large freckles are spattered on his abdominals, each one covering a secret place that makes him squirm every time I kiss it. His swim trunks ride low, and the crests of his hip bones jut out proudly. 

The sinews in his bicep and shoulder flex as he lifts his arm, and I watch his long fingers as he gracefully hooks the page under his thumb before flipping it. The veins in his arm become more prominent the longer his arm is in the air, rising up from his skin like a ridge of mountains on a topographical map. His head turns and he catches me staring. He gives me that grin, that charming, boyish smirk that holds me captive every time it appears, and I lean over to kiss him before returning to the well-worn pages of my leatherbound book. His arm falls, hand landing on the small of my back, and I decide that yes, we are indeed in heaven.

* * *


	2. Scent

The aroma of summer was all around us. I could smell the heat of the sun as it shone down gently. Tiny droplets from the lake blew in with the breeze, someone had freshly mown the grass underneath us, and somewhere nearby was a large coven of honeysuckle, ripe and full of blossoms. The old quilt we lay on had a musty smell from being packed in a cedar box for too long, but I didn’t mind.

I flipped the pages of the book in my hand, pressing my nose into the paper. No amount of technology could ever replace that smell. That smell transported me back to a better time, a time when life was simpler and choices were easier. A time when the only cares I had were piles of homework and which Lipsmackers to choose. It transported me far away, to lands of monsters and magic, of love, and life… and loss. 

And Henry? He smelled like rain. Like pine needles after they’ve been trampled a bit. I can still detect a soft woody note from his cologne tangled in his chest hair that wasn’t washed off by the lake water; it’s the sweet kind that lingers in your sinuses long after he’s left the room. The smell reminds me of the hoodie that he pretends to forget at my place when he leaves, knowing I’ll wear it in his absence.

I breathe deep as I stare at him, his musk washing over me as he raises his arm to turn the page of his book. I catch the unique note of his skin that is just him, and it also reminds me of another time not so long ago, and another smell. The smell of sweat, of passion, of his essence and mine coming together to create their own unique perfume. A scent so strong it permeates the room, saturates the sheets, leaves me aching for him when he’s not there.

He turns his head to look at me, grinning when he catches me staring. I drop my head down to place a kiss on his lips, the scent of watermelon still on his tongue. I smile softly against his lips before turning back to my book, and the nostalgia of its pages.


	3. Sound

The leaves in the branches brushed each other quietly in the breeze, creating a soft, ambient, background track to the scene laid out before us. I could hear the long draw of cicadas, indicating the peak of summer. A couple of birds were flitting above us, chattering animatedly about something or other. Henry’s steady breaths entered my ear as he lay next to me; every now and then his throat would constrict and the air from his lungs would stroke his vocal chords in such a way that a small, endearing grunt would pass his lips. Further away, I could hear the waves from the lake crashing against the dock and it reminded me of our swim. 

Henry had wrestled me into the water, laughing at my screeches of protest. His laugh was otherworldly, deep and rich and full of life. It was infectious; once you heard it you couldn’t help but laugh with him. All my cares seemed to melt away at the melody of his mirth, and I made it my mission to hear that sound whenever I could. We were alone; our playful banter bounced off the blue expanse of the lake, uninhibited by other residents.

“No, Henry, No!”

“You’re going in, love… the moment I catch you!”

“Oh my god, _Hank_ , I swear. You throw me in and you can walk hoooooooome!”

He’d swung me over his shoulders and beaten, I was unceremoniously thrown off the dock, that beautiful laugh the last thing I heard before being submersed. All sound was severed as my body was baptized, and the world around me took on a completely different wavelength; I closed my eyes to listen. I heard the muffled splash of Henry following me, the rush of water as his hands pushed against its resistance, and his chuckle resonated through my insides as the surrounding liquid magnified the sound. The momentary pause in time was broken as I surfaced, normalcy of life returning to my ears. Water against water, water against skin, skin against skin; this was war.

Drying off under the tree, I had soft music playing on my phone, and time seemed to stand still as we lay there reading. The rustle of my book pages as I flipped through them reminded me of ASMR, and I shivered as goosebumps crawled over my arms. The song changed, an old romantic croon given a modern take by a newer artist. I sang along quietly, my soft soprano floating into the air like gentle spirals of smoke. 

“Like the river flows surely to the sea,  
Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be.”

“Here, you dog-earred this one,” Henry says, and I stop singing to look at him. The book he’s reading is my collection of poems by Robert Frost that he likes to borrow when he’s visiting. He begins to read, and instantly his baritone draws me in.

“The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,  
The road is forlorn all day,  
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,  
And the hoof-prints vanish away.  
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,  
Expend their bloom in vain.  
Come over the hills and far with me,  
And be my love in the rain.”

I could immerse myself in that voice for hours. The same as his laugh, it’s deep and full and round. If he discusses anything he’s passionate about, it becomes very animated and the pitch changes rapidly, but there’s also a steady calmness about it that never fluctuates. When I’m anxious or I’ve had a bad day, I’ll snuggle in close and ask him to teach me about something. His voice is low, with a gravelly undertone, and is instantly relaxing. When he discovered that I have trouble at night when he’s gone and I listen to online interviews of his in order to sleep, he recorded my favorite book on tape so that I wouldn’t have to deal with commercials or other people interrupting. His kindness knows no bounds.

Henry finished the poem and I audibly hummed in appreciation, causing him to look my way. He catches me staring at his body and grins.

“Like what you see?” he teases, humor in his tone.

“Shut up,” I sass back before leaning down to kiss him. The tiny pip of soft lips meeting evolves slowly into the erotic smack of mouth on mouth, it’s steady beat blending with soft moans and heavy sighs to create an enchanting aria of happiness, of peace. Breathless gasps replace the song as we pull away, contented expressions on both our faces. I hear the dull thump of his hand connecting with my back as I return to my book, the score of summer once again lulling me into a euphoric state of mind.


	4. Touch

Pinpricks of sun sneak through the leaves and land on my skin, warm rays of Vitamin D soaking into my cells. It’s a hot summer day, but I bask in it’s warmth as the gentle breeze cools the last droplets of the lake that drip from my wet hair down my spine. I’m eating the last of the watermelon from our picnic, pressing through it’s soft flesh with my tongue. It’s grainy, but the granules quickly melt into liquid, sliding effortlessly down my throat without having to chew; it’s one of my favorite games. I feed Henry a piece and his lips clasp around my fingers, plump and wet. I wipe the stickiness he leaves on his stubbly cheek. He chuckles and ducks his head.

The old quilt beneath us is cool to the touch, softened by years and years of washings. It covers the gentle hills of uneven ground beneath the tree; I can feel them push my belly inward as I lay reading. The pages of my book are worn and soft, thinned over time by countless re-readings of its knowledge. Each dog-earred page brings back the memory of when I carefully folded the paper, the emotion that sprung so much to life after reading the poem that I felt the need to remind myself of its words. 

My forearm brushes Henry’s shoulder, and I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. He burns so much hotter than the rest of the world. Soft against soft, the slight touch is comforting; he’s always touching me in some way or another. He’ll wrap his arms around me and rest his chin on my head when we’re in public, or he’ll press his leg up against mine during dinner. He runs his fingers through my hair when we watch a movie, or his hand will guide the small of my back through doors. When he’s lying behind me and I’m nestled into the crook of his body, his hand always manages to find my breast in his sleep, similar to a little boy who hasn’t fully realized that he quit nursing years ago. It’s endearing.

Henry starts to read out loud and grabs my hand, lazily stroking my palm. The nerves in my fingers have a delayed response to the line he traces, similar to how the sound of an airplane travels behind the aircraft. He tugs gently on each finger in turn before loosely linking our fingers and holding my hand against his torso. I can feel his heartbeat, a steady rhythm in the large cavity of his chest, half a second faster than the one thumping against my wrist. The curly hair beneath the back of my hand tickles softly as the breeze blows through it and I rub my thumb over his crisp nail, grazing the sharp ridge with my finger pad.

Henry lets go of my hand to turn the page of his book and I’m free to explore. I trace a line from his neck down to his belly, connecting the dots of his freckles with my finger. His skin is smooth and the ridges of muscles underneath it are hard as marble; he truly is like a statue. His stomach flexes as I skirt around his navel but he keeps reading, finishing the poem as my hand finally rests on his side. He looks at me and my heart flutters in my chest at his grin, my pulse racing as his beauty awakens my senses. 

I lean over and touch my lips to his; softly, sweetly at first. Henry’s hand tangles in my hair as he grasps my neck firmly and he draws me in deeper, his mouth surrounding mine. My ribs expand and contract with more effort as oxygen leaves my body. His tongue travels a half circle, teasing the side of my mouth and I catch him in the middle, nibbling on his bottom lip before pulling away. 

I bite my own lip and smile at him, turning back to my book. Air slowly returns to my lungs, and Henry’s hand falls and slaps my lower back, the slight sting pleasant in a way. He rubs gentle circles in my skin, and then he’s back to lightly tracing it with his fingertips. The feeling sends delicious shivers up my spine, the tingly kind that make me fuzzy and squirmy on the inside. I turn back to my book and let the warm feelings wash over me. Serenity. Love. Happiness.


	5. Taste

I love the taste of summer. Heat in particular has a unique flavor. I breathe it in, and it’s warmth saturates my mouth, the temperature delicate and slow. Every scent in the air alights on my tongue in a pleasant cacophony of seasoning. I lick my finger to turn a page of my book and I can still detect a hint of the lake trapped in the cells of my skin. It blends with the crisp, sweet note of watermelon that fills my taste buds as I suck on a piece of the fruit, savoring it’s delectable aroma.

I look down at the old quilt underneath us, and I’m reminded of the countless number of picnics my grandmother used to make for me when we got out this blanket. From the bright and nutty combination of a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich, to much grander spreads for the whole family including ripe fruits and cheese, brisk cuts of flavorful meats, and the cool, sinful flavor of my favorite chocolate dessert. I can taste the overpowering sharpness of her cologne when she would pull me close into her bosom, and the memory of her is bittersweet, having lost her a few years ago.

The touch of Henry’s arm and the sound of his voice draw me in, and as I roam his body with my eyes I’m reminded of how sweet his skin is, and my favorite way to taste him. How the salt of his seed mingles in perfect harmony with the exclusive flavor that could only be Henry, soft and warm, with an undercurrent of wild danger; the kind that shows in his eyes when I stare up at him while savoring him fully.

Henry’s smile sends delicious trails of heat coursing along my nerves, and I lean over to lick those ungodly lips of his. The first note of watermelon meeting beer has me humming in appreciation, quickly devouring his mouth in an effort to extract every molecule of flavor from the depths of his cavernous maw. The taste of him is otherworldly, exotic hints of spice and hops, ripe nectar and raw power, and I can’t get enough of it, it’s addicting. I nibble his flesh in an attempt to draw out the tang of iron that we both enjoy, but he just smiles against me, pulling his lips taught and out of reach. I pull away and smirk at him, snaking my tongue against my mouth to pull every last drop of his essence from my skin.

As we go back to reading, I can’t help but lay my head down and close my eyes, picturing the moment again in my mind. The look in his eyes; the scent of his body; the sound of his voice; the feel of his skin; the taste of his lips. And as I commit this moment to memory I sense Henry shift, and the soft thud of something hits my book as I feel his lips brush my shoulder. I open my eyes, and sitting on the worn pages is a small velvet box, with a dazzling diamond nestled gently in it’s inner cushions. 

“Marry me?” he whispers, ghosting his lips over my skin. “Be my love in the rain.”

His voice sends goosebumps traveling down my flesh, and I turn to look at his face, that beautiful face that only God himself could have spoken into being. I stroke the line of his jaw with a finger, smiling up at him softly as his musk envelops me in warmth.

“Absolutely I will,” I whisper just as quietly, the song behind us fading away with perfect timing. 

“I can’t help falling in love with you.”


End file.
